A Stands For
by Waiting To Be Broken
Summary: Sherlock had been gone for a week. Two tops. How John had managed to not only get amnesia in the meantime but also master the arts of deduction was beyond him. And how adorably naive he was if he thought that was the end of it.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N **I've always wanted to try this- a story consisting mostly dialogues with minimal description (the next chapter will have even less). Then the idea of the plot came to me and I thought 'Why not?' I hope you like it and yes, yes, I know, it's really short.

Amnesia

The smile that met him when he burst into the room was... unusual. It was what he called 'the polite smile'- tight around the corners, eyes filled with artificial warmth.

"John?" he asked again, wondering what had happened in the week(s) he had been away. The smile became a little more real, yet it didn't loose the air of fake around it.

"Yes, that's me." John put the book he had in his hands aside and stood up, reaching out to shake the still man's hand. "And you are?"

Sherlock swept his eyes over his friend's body searching for any sign the man before him was joking but it was all too real. The way John held himself, the army posture he had lost months ago now back with full force, body ready for battle if the need arose. Without that distinctive light that shone in the blond's eyes when he looked at _him_. He barely had enough time to stop his hands from wiping on his pants. He was nervous and that realization came with far more emotions than any of his previous deductions.

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, yet nothing but a little whimper left his mouth. Before he could blush, not that he wold have, John was smiling wider now, the 'comforting smile' and it made something in the detective's stomach twist and turn. He wasn't a bloody victim, he didn't need _comfort_, the word sounded disgusting even in his own mind. If someone was acting weird it was John.

"I'm sorry. A couple of days ago I hit my head and now I don't remember some things."

"I..." Sherlock's hands twitched, begging him to curl them but he resisted the urge. It was weakness. As was the guilt slowly creeping in his body. If only he had been there... but, no, it _had_ been an important case. He couldn't pass a triple murder with a smiling face on the wall as the murderer's only note. And it hadn't been his fault John had chosen that moment to be away and he hadn't been able to say goodbye.

"No, please, let me. I'm quite good at reading people." The voice was calm and collected but the eyes were sparkling with barely-hidden excitement. That was the main reason Sherlock nodded, preparing himself to listen to a load of badly-drawn conclusions and most importantly, keep his tongue in check.

"You studied with me in the university." The detective bit back a groan. 'Here we go'. "No, not university. I thought you were a major in biology, the little flicker of interest, hidden behind the worry, when I mentioned the amnesia and me? I was studying to become a doctor. But it was crime, wasn't it. You like crimes, solving them. It's not a big leap from biology, despite what most people think. And in all honesty I _was _warned that I was sharing a flat with a... consulting detective, wasn't it? I just wasn't sure how long we have known each other. But there was no way we met in university and, no offense, but you aren't exactly army material.

But even if I didn't know it wouldn't have been that hard to guess, your stuff are all over the place and I could easily see what sort of person you are just by looking at them. But you are secretive, aren't you. You don't like showing your feelings, the way you are holding yourself now makes it obvious and since I started guessing right you have begun to close yourself off.

The chaos in you room, don't worry, I didn't snoop around should have told me random, impulsive person, but I really must congratulate you. The way you were able to put everything in perfect order so it seems as if it's random but one careful look and... Brilliant, simply brilliant..."

The praise, the only familiar thing in the whole scene managed to shake Sherlock out of his stupor. His gaze focused, pupils shrinking just as he had taught himself years ago. It was strangely comforting, the reminder that no, he was okay, the whole world had turned upside down.

"I know me, John." He didn't mean to hiss. But he wasn't used to his own techniques turned against him. "But who are you?"

Cliche. Dull. Boring.

The words filled his mind the moment the question left his mouth.

John smiled, hand beginning to twitch slightly. It wasn't one of his pretty smiles, Sherlock noticed.

"We both know who I am."


	2. Chapter 2

Abnormal

"John... you are dripping blood on the sofa," Sherlock mumbled, not lifting his head from the book he was reading. He didn't care, not really, but he did want to sit on that sofa right now and John was occupying too much space. Why didn't the man stay in his armchair? Everybody knew that the sofa was for Sherlock! Plus if he played his cards right he could even guilt trip the doctor into allowing his experiment another week of life.

"Shut up, Sherlock. I'm working." Well, he guessed he had failed to take some things into account. At least his experiment... John lifted his head from the medical magazine he was reading and something flashed in his eyes. "And clean those eyeballs from the fridge, would you? I need the shelf for an experiment of my own and we agreed to share."

Let it never be said that Sherlock was a selfish bastard. Still, he had been living with that... replica of himself for 3 days now and he already wanted to just curl his hands around his neck and _squeeze_. He could admit, though, he was rather impressed with the way John hadn't even batted an eye when he had acted the same way not even half a month ago.

And it wasn't really his fault that John couldn't survive for a week, okay maybe two, on his own without harming himself in some way. He was still sulking about that.

"Sherlock, will you bring me my gun? I need to go."

The greatest detective ever lived did not then turn around and leave the room to follow the other's wishes. It was only because this was his sofa the doctor was sitting on and the sooner Sherlock got him to move the sooner he could lay down where it was warm and soft and smelled...

The gun he found too easy, he could see it from the doorway. It was on the nightstand and the moment his eyes locked on it he froze. Why would someone need their gun so close to them? Sure, John was... strange and everything but amnesia didn't change your character. He should know, he did an experiment on that over a year ago.

Come to think of it, the whole room was somehow not right.

"Over-analyzing again?" A warm hand touched his back. "You can always ask but I suppose it does take all the fun out of it."

Sherlock barely glanced at his companion before he was spurting out deductions. This at least he knew, this was familiar.

"Your room is too clean. Military clean. You are a collector- whenever you feel comfortable with the place you are living in you fill it with priceless,"_adorable,_" useless junk. It took you three weeks to start doing it here. And every single thing is still here, placed in a way John wouldn't have done it... You know how they say it's easier to hide things in a mess." He turned his head slightly toward the other, noting with disgust the way the corners of his lips were curled in a smile. Not so fast. "They are wrong, of course. Humans rarely are right. So you were trying to hide something from me. But what?"

"And there is the thing about your gun. It was on your bedside table, a place which most people won't choose for such an object. Deep enough into your room for me to notice something, but on an obvious place- so I didn't have to look around. Conclusion- you didn't want me to snoop around."

John was definitely smiling now, seconds away from full, belly laugh. Somehow Sherlock doubted it would be anything like the one he had heard before from his friend.

"But you were the one to send me here. And you came far too quickly, almost as if you were expecting for me to notice something. And all those mixed signals..."

He turned around, eyes hard and set, like a judge ready to pass a sentence.

"You were testing me."

John laughed. Like always Sherlock had been right- the sound was piercing and loud. Hurting and above all- foreign. His eyes narrowed.

"I have to hand it to you- you are even better than the stories. It would have been so boring if you had been just some dull wise-ass."John smiled, hand withdrawing from its place on the taller's man waist. Sherlock didn't want to think about how much he missed the warmth- something could show on his face. "The gun, then, Sherlock?"

"It's right there." The detective stuck his chin out, half out of stubbornness and half because he was pointing at the direction. Okay, maybe not half-half but more likely 90-10.

John laughed again. Small, but not forced laughter, as if he was truly enjoying this. Without another word he entered the room and took his gun, tucking it at the front of his pants.

Sherlock was just about to ask him why he needed a gun in a hospital in the first place but he was beaten to a punch.

"Lestrade sent photos from his latest case. Something about 7 women with cut middle fingers arranged in a circle in abandoned warehouse. The file is on my desk. Contact me when you need my help."

Sherlock scowled at the retiring figure, feeling like this was his award or something and not liking it one bit. When John had disappeared completely and it was too weird for him to glare at the walls he stepped inside the room.

The first thing that he noticed was the puddle of blood he had apparently put his feet into. Only then did he realize the floor was studded with little drops of blood, everywhere John had walked.

Sherlock was not cleaning that.


	3. Chapter 3

Aggression

"Who are you?"

At first the only answer Sherlock had for that was a whimper. Excuse him if he wasn't very fond of pissed doctors pressing him against walls. Well, angry doctors that would rather beat him within an inch of his life than have... sexual intercourse with him. Although, he shouldn't be so sure... John squeezed his neck again and that theory turned into dust.

"I asked you something."

It was a wonder the doctor could even speak through his clenched teeth.

How sad it was that Sherlock was still growing aroused even if he should be feeling the primeval fear for his life?

"I don't know what you mean," he finally gasped. The great detective would have been delighted to say that he had found a way around the dead grip the other had on his throat to speak but alas. The only reason he was able to respond was because John had figured out it would be impossible for him to hear an answer to his question in their position and had removed his hand. Still pressing against Sherlock, though. Which really, really wasn't helping.

"I mean it's quite the philosophical question, isn't it? Who are we, where we come from, why are we here. For instance can you tell me who you are?"

Sherlock was buying time, it was obvious, at least to himself. His only hope was that if John sensed it, and he would, now that he was so good at those kind of things, that wouldn't fuel his anger.

"I know who I am," John's voice was quiet and nothing like his previous angry shouts. A cloud had taken residence on his face.

'Those words again,' Sherlock noted. He ached to ask but it was bellow him to search for help. He could figure it out himself. Yes, of co...

"And who are you?"

His bloody mouth wasn't listening again!

"A doctor. Mostly soldier. Wounded in battle and sent back home. The doctors thought I had PTSD. They were wrong, of course, useless leeches they are. I craved the stress, the blood, the mu..." John lifted his head and the detective could only watch mesmerized the pain that flashed in those orbs." That's me- a blood-thirsty errand-boy. Now it's your turn. And be sure to tell me what I want to hear because I don't deal well with people like you. The only reason I'm asking at all is that Lestrade assured me you are... sane. "

When most people would have gotten dizzy with so much information thrown at them, Sherlock carefully stored every word and sound and image for further analyzing and focused on the most relevant problem at the moment. Like the short man who was honestly just about to kill him.

"I have no idea what you mean. But I would be really glad if you let me go."

"This is what I'm talking about." Once again, his voice was too loud for Sherlock's ears and the detective winced slightly, before his eyes focused on the thing the other was holding in his hand.

Underwear. Red underwear. He wondered how hadn't he noticed it right away. But then again he _had_ been pressed against a wall by a man he very much liked to do so. Yes, the sentence didn't sound so great in his mind, either. Must have something to do with the blond... The point was- underwear. What was that?

"What is that?"

"Oh, don't play dumb. This was in your drawer, and before you ask, no, I didn't go there searching for something like that to throw in your face, you send me to search for your stupid book about criminology."

When Sherlock continued to stare at him with blank eyes, John's glare became more prominent. With one last squeeze he let go of the other man and took a step back.

"They are mine," he growled as an explanation.

It really shouldn't have turned Sherlock on so much.

He had always liked the doctor, the way he cared for him, his honesty. The subconscious signals he was sending the detective sometimes that Sherlock, if he wanted to, could pretend were genuine. But this was something entirely different, this was real. One step, one signal send a man too perceptive for his own good's way and his dream would become reality. If by reality we meant a night stand that will never be remembered or repeated.

Sherlock had never been known for his compromises. Not with the things he didn't like and certainly not with the ones he loved.

None of his inner turmoil showed on his face, of course. He had been practicing for years to hide the truth and he was certainly not saying that he himself had taken the underwear because he liked how John looked in it and he hoped a man with no memories wouldn't suddenly remember something as insignificant as a pair of red pants. He valued his life that much.

"Whatever," John huffed, taking another step back. It seemed like he had believed the whole innocent act. "Just don't let me catch you again."

Or not.

**A/N** And here I am still not saying anything plot-related. But you have to admit, BAMF John is certainly nice to write (and read I hope). Next chapter we will find out just how much of a bad-ass our doctor really is. Until next time then. I hope you enjoyed it ^.^


	4. Chapter 4

A/N This. Is. Weird. And I suck at trying to write only dialogue. Still, I hope you enjoy it.

Something Akin To Affection

"We were lovers once, weren't we?"

Sherlock had had very weird days- more so lately. But this was surely, without a doubt the starting of one of those in his all-time top 10 list. Top 3 even. Not to mention probably the most awkward one.

"W-what?" he stammered, lifting his head from the bowl of cereal John had tricked him into eating. It was comforting that some thing never changed. Still, Sherlock had prided himself with three thing- his deducting ability, his acting skills and his sharp mind that no matter the situation never failed him. Now he had to exclude the last one.

"We fucked, at least? You make it quite obvious. Those glances you send my way, when you think I'm not looking or, knowing you, when you know I'm pretending not to look. And the way you always stop yourself from touching me... Just now when I voiced my deductions your finger twitched, not to hit me- there was no visible heat in your eyes and albeit you are a big fan of the drama- slapping me is simply not your style. So you wanted to touch me. You do it quite a lot actually."

John reached for his spoon. The one that somehow had been in the other man's hands. Nobody commented on the way Sherlock flinched when the thing was being _torn _from his numb fingers. The blond's smirk was enough. "Plus your pupils dilate and your heartbeat accelerates when I'm near but those are details everyone can pick up.

"I'm... we have never been lovers," Sherlock finally gritted out. Now all he had to do was stand up slowly, get out of the kitchen casually and run to his room. Not so casually. And everything before John had reached _the _conclusion.

He could see it now, the doctor's eyes were widening, his mind running an hour a mile possibly with thoughts like "I can't be wrong", "I've never been wrong", "This is not right".

"No. But you wanted to."

And this was the moment in which Sherlock had to be halfway across the room. Sadly, he was still in his chair, staring blankly at the other man. He tried, anyway, and he was just rounding the table when a hand curled around his wrist and tugged him slightly. It was by no means rough and it didn't hurt. They both knew John was stronger, the army doctor didn't need to prove himself.

"Don't," John murmured, using his least-threatening voice. The one he had used on his scared soldiers. Or so Sherlock guessed. Both of them had no way of knowing that. "It's okay. I want it too."

"He doesn't," it was barely audible but Sherlock knew the other would hear it. How could he not?

"What?"

The hold around his wrist got a little bit tighter, yet the detective didn't notice.

"You may want to but he doesn't. And I care more about him that I care for you."

"What if I promise you won't see him for a very long time?"

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut. That had been the last thing he had wanted to hear. Still, "You are remembering."

"I'm not," John snapped, his face twisting into a grimace Sherlock had never thought would look good on his face. And he had been right, like always.

"You are." Nobody, not even he, knew why his smile was so sad, so... pathetic. "'You make it quite obvious'. The way you react to people, buildings. Remember the other day, you glared at the taxi driver even if the man was doing his job perfectly well. Or when we caught that circus performance on the TV and you changed the channel immediately. There was, there _is _no way for you to know we had a case concerning people like that. That you could have died."

"You are remembering and I'm scared that some of those memories..."

"Afraid that I'll remember I'm your loyal side-kick. Don't worry, I already know that."

"Not this. Other things, darker things."

"That I killed for you?" His smile had more teeth than heart in it. "Or that I'd do it again?"

"How did you..."

"Know? I found a gun stashed deep inside my wardrobe. Used one- there is always a way to tell this."

"Still..."

"As soon as I woke up in the hospital they told me about you. That you were my friend, my roommate. My 'master' some of them called you, my 'lover'- others. I hated not knowing so I looked you up. A case caught my eye- you were after a serial killer. There was no way you could have made it out alive- both pills were poisonous. Then a miracle happened. Somebody shot the man. Clear shot through the heart from such a distance. Professional, his hand couldn't have shook at all. The police was unable to find the gunman. And all of this just a day after we have met. I'm everything but not stupid, Sherlock."

"He said he got rid of it." From an outsider's point of view, Sherlock looked like he was almost pouting. But that couldn't be true, the great detective did not pout. Or sulk for that matter. "He was always like that, so emotional."

"He?" there was something in John's voice. Oddly enough it reminded Sherlock of cold milk- just in need for a little heating before it warmed you inside. This, of course, was completely bollocks. "Do you know what sets me and him apart, Sherlock?"

'Your manners, the way you talk, walk, think. Your boldness, how closed and fake you are'. However, before he could open his mouth, he was already shaking his head.

"Our memories. I'm him before he changed, him from the war. Everything he once hated in himself. I _am _John, just a Sherlockless John. And I might not remember much but I know this- I would never kill for someone I don't lo-like."

He leaned forward and for one blissful second Sherlock thought he might kiss him. But the doctor did nothing but pat his shoulder gently, hand lingering a moment too long, before he walked out.

His smile- the one that plastered itself over Sherlock's eyelids as soon as he saw it- had just the right amount of heart in it.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N **That chapter is long (in comparison to the others at least). And I made you wait so long for it that I'm actually ashamed of myself. I can only hope that it was worth the wait. Enjoy!

Alike

"Sheeerlock?" The loud voice carried through the apartment, reaching Sherlock's ears in a matter of seconds. He ignored it, his experiment was far more interesting than whatever John had decided to nag him about today. Even if there was a hint of unusual cheerfulness, it wasn't enough to make the detective lift his head.

"No," he stated simply.

"Can't I at least have a saying on the matter?" Sherlock could _hear_ the eyebrow raising.

Truth be told, his experiment wasn't more important than what they were going to discuss. They couldn't even be compared. That was the main problem.

"I won't sleep with you. No matter your arguments."

The second one had surely joined its mate already."I was going to talk to you about the new case but... Wait? Really? Why not? Is it that stupid double personality theory that had been stuck on that brilliant mind of yours? Because I can guarantee it's total bullshit."

"John."

"What? It is." Sherlock finally raised his head, dignifying him with his famous I-am-not-impressed look. The other John, and when had he stopped thinking of him as 'the real John', would always act even less impressed whenever the detective did that. This one, however, just grinned. "Oh, the case. That's your favourite word, isn't it? Once you hear it and you are all over..."

"John! People can die."

"As if you care."

"Well, people will die if you don't cure my boredom right now. At least one person will."

He didn't know when that had happened. When he had started joking with this new John, how it didn't bother him anymore how strange and surreal everything was. Maybe the moment he stopped considering him as another person and instead looked at him just as an addition to the one he loved.

John snorted. "And then you are left without a case."

"Oh, I'm sure Lestrade would be happy to fill me in."

"He... doesn't know." There was something off with the other man's voice as his eyes hardened just slightly. Slowly, Sherlock backed away from the experiment he had on the kitchen table in order to turn all of his attention to the doctor. "I met someone from your Homeless Network. I thought that they would have a case for us. Well, for you. And I knew you were going mad with boredom already."

Ignoring the hint of concern in the other's words, or the way they warmed his heart, it was sickening, Sherlock asked incredulously, "You met them? Do you even know them?"

"Of course, I do. You thought they came only to you, didn't you. Half of the cases I gave you were things Lestrade hadn't even _heard_. And it's not like you tried to hide it from me."

"Quite boasting and just tell me." Sherlock was getting impatient, his fingers twitching to drum against the wood before him, but that would be too obvious, when a thought both marvelous and horrifying occurred to him and he froze in place. "You remember?"

He hadn't meant for his voice to sound so similarly to a kid's on the Christmas morning.

John nodded once, slowly, comically. Except there was nothing comical about the way his eyelids dropped down and his face hardened. His shoulders trembling slightly. Things so easy to miss but so hard to ignore.

"Yeah." The word left his mouth in a breath. There was a pause and then, "Look, I have to go. I remembered that I forgot something somewh... at work."

Even ignoring the fact that John hadn't been at work for the past week, that was the worst excuse in the history of excuses. It was so bad that Sherlock had to fight back the smile and laugh bubbling in his chest, knowing how inappropriate that would be.

Besides, John's pouting wasn't cute. That scowl could hardly be called pouting.

Nonetheless, if Sherlock found it cute they would have a problem. Good thing he didn't. Nope. Not one bit.

"Wait," the detective called after him. With a few long steps he was in front of the other man, fingers grazing sweater-covered skin and aching to dig down deeper. "Remember when you said you and him are so much alike?" Sherlock asked, just to see the doctor squirm.

"I think you were wrong."

He was... weirdly gleeful about the whole deal. It was a wonder John hadn't punched him in the face. Yet.

Judging from the death grip John had on his jacket, the man was on the verge of changing that fact. So instead of over thinking everything and letting his brain screw up everything, Sherlock did the first thing that crossed his mind.

He kissed the other man. And it was hot and so sensual and really just a peck on the lips. Later on, he would realize that this sort of things shouldn't make him go weak in the knees on his age. Right now he was too busy feeling happy and dizzy.

"You are a part of him. You have always been here, with us. And I don't care how strange that sounds right now, but I love you. I love him. And I want you, both of you."

Sherlock had always had the strange ability to make the most weird things sound normal and sane. Sadly, that wasn't one of those moments.

The only reaction he got was narrowed eyes. He tried again.

"You are him, a part of him. You said so yourself. When you remember you won't _disappear_ like I know you fear you would. You would always be with me and I think it's only for the better that I got to know you, fall for you even."

"That's a bit strong, don't you think?" The words were teasing, the tone- even more. John was smiling at him and Sherlock couldn't help but stretch his lips upward in return.

"Maybe. But I have time. That's it, if you don't choose to visit me at night and strangle me to death once you remember."

"Oh, I'm sure there would be visits once I regain my full conscious and more importantly- get my head out of my ass. I doubt there would be a lot of strangling involved, though... well, maybe if you are into tha..."

Sherlock kissed him. To shut him up, of course, not because he enjoyed it. And this time his knees really did give out and it was just his luck that John was able to catch him before he had sunk to the ground in a most dignifying manner. After that the other man teased him endlessly, but it was a price worth paying for having John hold him so close.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N **I intended to make this one the last chapter but even if it's a "little" short I think it stops in the right place. Don't worry, you will get the next and final chapter pretty soon. And I'm sorry in advance that this isn't as light as the others.**  
**

After All

Sherlock was slowly panicking. And that had nothing to do with the blood trickling from the wound on his stomach, or the woman kneeling a few meters before him, screaming in pain. Or even the whole of Scotland Yard looking at him funnily. His agony had an entirely different focus- the man in front of him, holding him with strong hands, probing his wound. Not caressing, just analyzing. Cold. With eyes that knew far too much.

It had been an easy case. So simple and mundane, the motivation- stupid, banal. The killer murdered and raped the victims, in that order, and of course Scotland Yard or more likely Retards on Guard, that had been John's, needed their help.

The key was that the killer was a woman. But then again what sort of key is something everyone was aware of. Well, only he and John knew but that was everyone that mattered. The gun that had been used- always new, always the same- that should have been their first clue about how simple the case would be, was more suitable for a girl. Sherlock had noticed that right away. John had had a different... approach. He had realized that the marks on the victims' corpses, male, white, between 20 and 30 years- second clue- hadn't been caused by penetration of a real penis.

Sherlock so didn't want to know how the other man had known about those kind of stuff. He was sure he would be walking funnily for days if he found out.

Bottom line was, they knew the gender of the killer, her habits and how she thought. It hadn't been hard to find an abandoned warehouse and voila, there she had been- ready to shoot her fourth victim. In an abandoned warehouse. Did people still do that? It bothered Sherlock to no end that the answer was apparently yes.

The situation had quickly turned out of control with the woman pointing a gun at Sherlock, John pointing a gun at the woman and Sherlock... Sherlock just standing there.

"Get behind me!" John had ordered.

Not that Sherlock had heard him, the voice being muffled by the loud bang the woman's gun had created after she had fired. Then there had been screaming, another gun shot and more screaming.

Needless to say, after that everything had been just a huge blurry spot in the detective's mind as he had fought the pain and his fear for his... for John

And here he was now- warm brown eyes, filled with so much knowledge, freezing him into place. Lips set in a straight line, ruining it only to whisper, "I'm going home."

"John?" Sherlock tried faintly. He had made the other man mad before, almost on a daily basis, but never this big. Never for a something that the detective had wanted, something that he would hardly give up without a fight. Something that seemed more and more far away as the seconds ticked away.

"No." John didn't even turn around, just continued walking. His voice came out hollow and slight. "_I'm_ going home and you are going to the hospital."

The rational part of his brain told Sherlock that this was normal. "Give him a little time and everything would fall into place," it whispered soothingly.

He didn't want normal, he didn't want everything that had been before. He wanted John the way he had had him the past week- always there to share body heat or to distract him with a kiss on the cheek, ruining an experiment that in turn ruined their sink. Close. Just close.

But.

In the end it hadn't even mattered what he wanted.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N **Well, that was fun. And rather unfulfilling because I realized I'm far better with the one-page-long description and heavy conversations. Still, for a first try and for such a hopeless case I think I did pretty well! Anyway, this is the last chapter, the title is cliche but I've been craving to use it for a while so... yeah. Enjoy!**  
**

Amour

The wound was merely a scratch and yet Sherlock had to wait for an hour for the medics to finally clean and bandage it. He would have walked away normally, claimed that he could do their half-assed monkey job at home but he was glad for the excuse he had to be away from John.

Or more likely the excuse he had to let John be away from him for a while. He had no idea what would greet him at home and that scared him more than everything that he could come up with. Would there be yelling, would he be welcomed with a kiss? Or they would pretend nothing ever happened? Or would John simply go... No, that was the only thing the good doctor wouldn't do, he knew that much. Believed that much.

When he was done, Lestrade, good, old Lestrade that had stayed with him the whole time and if Sherlock didn't know any better he would have said it was because he cared, offered him to drive him home.

"That would be much lovely, Lestrade. But don't you have somewhere else to be? No cases to stare at until I come and solve them, are there?" he retorted, already heading for the exit, his shaking hands fixing his scarf yet again. Behind him the detective-inspector snorted and, knowing him, most probably shook his head.

Sherlock contemplated for half a second whether he should catch a cab or simply walk home, buying himself an extra hour. Then he realized how childish he was acting and for the first time in his life it actually bothered him. Maybe because he was also acting like an idiot, or God forbid a...

Normal person.

It was okay, he reasoned with himself. Everyone had their moments. That didn't mean he was starting to become a... he couldn't even think it. Everything was perfect. And it wouldn't happen again.

Except when it did.

Just before he had entered their flat, Sherlock was overwhelmed with the sudden need to just hide and never come back. Run and run and run until there was nothing between him and John again. Or most likely get tired, grumpy and missing John and come back. Which, based on previous experience, won't take more than 20 minutes.

So he sucked in a breath, opened the door and got ready to duck in case there were any unidentified objects flying toward his head.

What greeted him was slightly different.

And yet oddly normal.

It was the picture of John sipping tea in his favourite armchair with a newspaper on his lap. Calm. Unarmed. Sherlock let himself breathe.

Only to have his breath caught when John opened his mouth.

"... Do you want some tea?"

Sherlock shook his head dumbly. Then the most wonderful, beautiful idea, came to his mind. What if John didn't remember what had happened? That occurred every day, right? (No, it didn't) Yes, of course, that was perfectly acceptable (No, no, it wasn't).

"It's a shame I didn't like tea before the army."

O... kay. Well. People tended to share random facts about their past. Randomly. (No, they didn't) Or it could be a total coincidence (Actually... oh for crying out loud, why did he even bother).

Sherlock nodded. Rather dumbly.

Traced the way John's body moved as he lifted himself, remembered how well it had fit beside him on the sofa, just a day ago, how good it had smelled...

"You need to lay down. You were shot," John said sternly, coming to stand before the detective.

"Okay."

And wasn't that a progress- getting one word out of himself. Before they knew it he would be saying _two_ words!

"And no experiments for a week." The left eyebrow was climbing up but as long as the lips weren't set in a firm line, Sherlock figured he wasn't in that much of a trouble.

Wait, what? When had John just ordered him what to do and he had listened? As far as he remembered it was the other way around. He opened his mouth to say that much and he would have, probably starting a row between them when he was shut up in the best way he could imagine.

John curled a hand around his neck and tugged him down. "That was for not listening to me when I told you to get behind me," he whispered when they were just mere breaths apart.

Then even that distance was gone. And replaced with something so much better and warmer and softer.

"And this was for everything else."

John smiled and it was so beautifully ordinary, his eyes shining and red, kissable lips twitching upwards that Sherlock couldn't help but lean forward once again.

When they finally separated, they were breathless and flushed and Sherlock was laughing as free as a child.

John smiled fondly. "Now, go, before it becomes two weeks."


End file.
